Good Omens for a Lancre Hogswatch
by Igorina
Summary: Discworld crossover in which, after taking a wrong turn somewhere outside Ankh Morpork, Crowley and Aziraphale find themselves spending Hogswatch at Lancre Castle.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own absolutely none of the characters or setting to be found herein.

A/N: This was originally intended to be a Christmas fic. In the end however, it was finished a month over scheduel and eight thousand words over the original estimate.

It was Hogswatching Night, and the Lancre hills were most certainly not alive with the sound of music. They were however, very much alive with the sound of two supernatural beings having a heated mid-air argument.

"It's all your bloody fault," muttered Crowley. "If you hadn't got it into your head to go and visit the blessed monkey we wouldn't be flapping aimlessly around this Go... taste forsaken backwater."

"Well it's hardly as if I asked you to come with me," snapped Aziraphale, in a distinctly un-angelic manner. "I was only going to the university to deliver The Librarian's Hogswatch present... and I notice that you didn't call him a 'monkey' to his face this time. Besides, if I remember correctly, I wasn't the one who suggested that we go for a drink or seventy-eight in the Mended Drum."

"But you were the one who suggested a nice long flight to clear our heads afterwards. You know, as oppose to just wishing ourselves sober."

"As I recall there were no objections made on your part."

"I was otherwise occupied at the time. Anyway I thought you knew where we were going, and, somewhat more importantly, how we were going to get back."

"Occupied, is that what you're calling it these days," said Aziraphale, his tone now veritably seething. "I rather thought it looked more like a three-way clinch between you, a barmaid, and the son of Ankh Morpork's leading moral crusader."

At this Crowley smirked in a way that only served to exacerbate the angel's annoyance. "I am a de..."

"Don't you dare try and tell me it was because you were fulfilling your tempting quota for the week. Anything you do here isn't going to count as far as Down There is concerned. No, you were doing it purely to spite me."

"Well it's not as if you've been particularly forthcoming in that particular area recently, is it?" said Crowley, the statement sounding far more bitter than he'd actually intended.

"And you know full well what the reason is. Or do I need to remind you: mass brawling in the European Parliament, group sex on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, a stadium full of Arsenal fans talking in tongues, the entire Greater Manchester Constabulary simultaneously experiencing a moment of divine ecstasy; oh, and lets not forget that whole debacle with the Hogwarts Coat of Arms. We can't afford to let that happen more than say, once every year."

Crowley scowled. Their recent discovery that amorous encounters between angels and demons invariably resulted in the release of massive amounts of divine and diabolic energy at the moment of climax had really put a crimp on certain, newly discovered, aspects of their relationship. "I don't see why it has to matter. I mean things even out as far as Upstairs and Down There are concerned."

"And what about the thousands of people affected pray tell?. As constantly amazed as I am by the human ability to disregard anything that doesn't fit into their personal conception of reality, they will, believe it or not, eventually start to notice that something's a bit different than usual when copies of the Financial Times start to appear with lurid illustration from the Karma Sutra under the headline NASDAQ Rises By 30 Points As Demon Gets Shagged Senseless By Angel."

Unable to find flaw in the angel's reasoning Crowley opted to vent his displeasure by swooping downwards and vaporising a few large trees . Aziraphale made a great show of pointedly ignoring him. Both were too caught up in their personal feelings of annoyance to notice the three women on brooms flying just fifty metres behind them.

—

"What are they?" asked an awestruck Agnes.

"Angels," replied Granny Weatherwax, dismissively.

There was a medium to loud bang as several venerable old oaks went up in flames.

Agnes looked shocked. "That's not very angelic behaviour."

"Well, I reckon that the bad-tempered one with the silly black glasses on is probably a fallen angel," said Nanny Ogg, sagely. "Get them a lot in religions."

"I know the difference between a proper angel and a fallen one Gytha," said Granny, tartly. "Can't abide by either. Going around meddling in other peoples business all the time. It's not right." If there was one thing that Esmeralda Weatherwax couldn't stand it was supernatural entities muscling in on other peoples private affairs; that was her job.

"Wonder what they're arguing about," said Agnes.

Nanny Ogg strained her neck to get a better look at the pair. "Lovers' tiff by the looks of things. From what I could hear - not that I was deliberately trying to overhear anything of course - the light-haired one's angry with the one in the silly glasses, because the one in the silly glasses was getting a bit too friendly with some other people. And the one in the silly glasses is throwing a paddy because the light-haired one won't get too friendly with him often enough."

Agnes blushed. "But I thought angels didn't... well, you know."

"Everyone has urges," said Nanny. "Just look what happens in the stories when they get all frustrated. There's them Omnian ones that go around blowing up cities, them Offlerian ones that go around spying in peoples houses. Then there's that one down there, threatening to burn down the forest. It's not healthy, trying to keep those sort of feelings pent up."

Agnes's blush deepened. Her sense of embarrassment was not helped by the fact that Perdita insisted on wondering whether they did it with their wings out.

Granny sniffed superciliously. "Speak for yourself Gytha Ogg. Some of us have a little more self-restraint than others."

"No need to be like that Esme. Anyway, I don't think our little friend down there has a great deal of that self whatsit."

"Well, I can't be having with all this - what's that fancy word Magrat uses - ecological vandalism It's not right."

"We'll have to have words then," said Nanny.

"Oh there's going to be words all right."

Without warning, the brooms ridden by the two older witches doubled their speed, and began to close the gap between them and the two quarrelling supernatural beings. Agnes followed as best she could.

—

Crowley was mentally debating whether raining fire on some more of the forest, or blowing up that nearby uninhabited hillside, would be the best way to vent his irritation, when he suddenly became aware of an old woman hovering a few feat away from him, on what looked like a fourteenth century cleaning implement.

"What the fuck?" Was the most sensible comment he could think of.

"I do not take kindly to that sort of language, young man," she said, quietly.

Crowley was going to make a sarcastic remark about their comparative ages; however, for some reason the words that came out of his mouth were; "Er, sorry about that." It was almost as though the part of his mind labelled 'survival mechanism' had suddenly hardwired itself to his vocal chords.

"So you should be. What I'd like to know is what you think you're doing to my forest?"

He was going to vaporise her... well threaten to at least. Unfortunately - or fortunately depending on ones point of view - he found himself apologising profusely, and offering to pay for the damage.

Hell didn't teach its demons to resist the terrifying powers of applied headology.

—

"Hello," said Nanny Ogg, as she approached the non-fallen angel.

"Good evening dear lady," said Aziraphale, politely.

"There's something I don't get called very often," said Nanny, cheerfully. "Mind you we don't usually get men with wings flying around Lancre; well apart from Mr. Ixolite the banshee that is, but he doesn't count."

"I'm afraid me and my... associate are a little lost."

"Associate, is that the word you use these days?"

Aziraphale could feel his face start to flush. "You wouldn't happen to know where the nearest library is?" he said, trying to change the subject.

"Well, I think there's probably a small one at the castle. Are you looking for a book. I wrote one once."

"Really?" said the angel, not quite sure how to respond.

Nanny Ogg nodded her head. "The Joy of Snacks, it's called. I could lend you a copy if you like." The old woman's voice was worryingly suggestive.

"Look I don't suppose you could show me where this castle library is, could you? I'd be most grateful."

"See, that might be a bit of a problem. The King and Queen are having a big Hogwatch party tonight, even got some Duke from Ankh Morpork coming with an entourage, whatever one of them is. I don't think they'd like angels coming and nosying around their books; especially a bad-tempered one like your friend there."

"Oh, I don't want to look at any of the books," Aziraphale said. This was of course a lie; he was always more eager to have a nosy at other people's collections. "I just want to get home. That and get Crowley away from here."

"How're you going to do that in a library?"

Aziraphale attempted to explain the wonders of L-Space.

"Cor, Esme was right when she said that books could do weird things," said Nanny shaking her head.

"Esme?"

"Esmeralda Weatherwax. She's the one telling off your mate."

Aziraphale couldn't help but smile at the sight of an abashed Crowley being given a stern talking to by an elderly lady on a broomstick.

"Perhaps if I spoke with the King myself, explained the situation to him? "

Nanny Ogg shrugged her shoulders. "Well I don't suppose it could do any harm to ask. I better go and check with Esme though."

"Is she the leader of your, er.. group?"

"Witches don't have leaders."

"But you just said that you'd have to ask her whether or not you were allowed to show me to the castle."

"Oh there'd be hell to pay if I didn't ask her first."

Aziraphale quickly came to the conclusion that it was probably best not to even try and decipher how the hierarchical structure of witchcraft actually worked.

In the end it took the best part of half-an-hour for the angel to persuade Granny that it would be a good idea to show them where the castle was. In the end it was the promise of Crowley being sent to another universe that did it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam Vimes wasn't quite sure why Vetinari had decided to send him, Sybil, young Sam, and an entourage of watchmen, to the Royal Lancre Hogswatch Gala; although he strongly suspected that it may have had something to do with Sybil's complaints about him not having any holiday time. What he was sure of however, was that he hated large parties, didn't like the countryside very much, and generally found Hogswatch to be a time for pacifying rowdy drunks, rounding up unlicensed thieves, and attempting to prevent heated domestic disputes from escalating into all out civil war. Still, at least Sybil seemed to be having a good time. The Duchess of Ankh was conversing, non-alcoholic, herbally infused, drink in hand, with Queen Magrat of Lancre, on the subject of early years education.

A hand suddenly clapped on his shoulder. "Sir Samuel, there you are."

"Your Majesty." Vimes inwardly cursed. King Verence II seemed a nice enough bloke, as far as kings went; it was just that the man's enthusiasm for all things labelled 'progressive' and 'civilised', got more than a little wearing after a while.

"I was hoping that you and I could discuss that 'forensic science' business you mentioned earlier. I thought we might have a talk the Smoking Room later; not that I touch tobacco myself, of course, very bad for the lungs... My word what is that monkey in the ball dress doing?"

Vimes looked across the ballroom to where Corporal Nobby Nobbs was demonstrating, or at least attempting to demonstrate, a traditional Morporkian folk dance, to a crowed of bemused onlookers. Earlier enquiries as to why Nobby was wearing a powder blue, crinoline ball gown had been met with vague comments about its disguise potential. Vimes had no idea why Nobby would need a disguise on this particular occasion, but had thought it wise not to pursue the matter any further than he had to. "That would be Corporal Nobbs."

"Why is he wearing a dress?"

"We generally find it best not to ask."

—

It was the first time that kitchen maid Gertie Spindle had ever been left in charged of anything, let alone preparing the dainties for a Hogswatch banquet. Following Mrs. Scorbic's ill timed trip down the stairs, Queen Magrat had delegated responsibility for the feast to the three remaining kitchen staff and Shawn Ogg - when he wasn't emptying the privies, or on guard duty, that was. Still, it was a great honour for a young girl like Gertie to be given free reign when it came to deciding what sort of sweets were going to be served up, and she had found just the recipe in the cookery book that her mother kept on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboards. Gertie wasn't quite sure why her mother needed a cookery book; as a proud Lancre housewife Mrs. Spindle knew about twenty traditional Ram Tops recipes, and various variations thereof, off by heart. Still, the book had been written by A Lancre Witch, so it was probably a very special selection of recipes from Mistress Weatherwax's personal collection.

Gertie had led a rather sheltered existence; and wouldn't have been able to recognise an innuendo if it were graffitied onto the side of the castle in fifty foot high red letters, and accompanied by a detailed set of diagrammatic instructions. It was for this reason that, as she went about preparing Forn Pastries topped with Special Secret Sauce, she remained blissfully unaware of the likely consequences of serving such a dish to over three hundred people in the ground floor ballroom.

—

Flying alongside Nanny Ogg had been an experience that Aziraphale didn't think he would ever be able to forget. The woman was very clearly shameless when it came to matters of the heart, and for that matter, the groin. She had, during the twenty minute flight to the castle, made several indiscrete enquiries into angelic anatomy, and the relative completeness thereof. It had really all been quite embarrassing. Still, at least Mrs. Ogg was a cheerful enough sort, unlike the other old woman, who had spent the entirety of the journey berating Crowley for his general existence. Aziraphale made a mental note not to let the demon forget this singular occurrence for at least the next thousand years.

They landed in the courtyard of Lancre Castle. It was, unlike the architecture dotted across the rest of the surrounding countryside, a massive and heavily fortified structure. It was therefore quite a surprised to find that security was the sole responsibility of Mrs. Ogg's youngest son, Shawn Ogg, who was tonight acting as guard, steward and general helper out.

"I thought you said that you had an invitation?" said Aziraphale, as Mistress Weatherwax led the way to what appeared to be the castle kitchens.

"Oh, witches never use the front door if we can help it," said Mrs. Ogg.

Crowley muttered something incredibly lewd about back entrances under his breath. Mrs. Ogg burst out laughing, the youngest witch blushed furiously, Mistress Weatherwax just glared.

"Er...sorry," said Crowley, wearing the same expression a naughty schoolboy, who has just been caught writing swear words on the lavatory wall. Aziraphale didn't think he had every seen him this cowed before.

"So you should be," said Mistress Weatherwax, coldly, before opening a discretely placed wooden door, and sweeping inside.

A blast of warm air instantly burst forth.

"'Ere we are," said Nanny Ogg, rubbing her hand together.

The kitchens were really quite expansive, but seemed only to be manned, or for that matter womanned, by three bustling young women. On witnessing the entrance of Nanny Ogg however, two of the women stopped what they were doing, and curtsied respectfully.

"I couldn't half murder a cup of tea," said Nanny, casually.

The two unfortunate daughters in law instantly dashed for the kettle and strainer.

"I don't mean to be rude, but we are in rather a hurry to get home," said Aziraphale, sensing an immanent and prolonged delay, should tea be served.

"Agnes, go and show Mr. Zirifell and his friend to the king, will you," said Nanny Ogg, clearly deciding that delegation was the key to personal contentment.

"Yes Nanny," said the youngest witch, sighing ever so slightly.

"And if you see Magrat. Tell her we're here."

"Yes Nanny."

"It's this way," said Agnes, gesturing for the two men shaped entities to follow.

As the young woman led them out of the kitchens, and into a cavernous hallway, Aziraphale felt duty bound to make polite conversation. "Witchcraft must be a terribly interesting career for a young woman," he said, conversationally.

"It's alright I suppose," replied Agnes, with a shrug.

"But you'd rather be doing something more exciting, right?" said Crowley.

"Tried that once already," said Agnes. "I joined the Ankh Morpork Opera, but it didn't really work out."

"Ah well, plenty more jobs for young women in the big city. Seamstressing for example." The leer on the demon's face strongly suggested that he was not referring to the honourable craft of darning socks.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale scowled

The demon smirked.

Agnes felt increasingly as though she had landed in the middle of a long standing squabble between an old married couple. She was really quite relieved when they came to the ballroom's arched entrance.

—

In the time honoured tradition of parties everywhere, there was at least one woman, in the corner of the ballroom, attempting to extract an opinion about the suitability of her dress, from an attractive friend. In this case however, the woman was a dwarf, and her attractive friend, a werewolf. Nevertheless, the conversation was following that hallowed script passed down from generation to generation, with only a few minor adjustments.

"Angua."

"Yes?"

"You don't think that this dress makes my beard look too big, do you?"

"You look fine Cheery. The pink suits you. Really brings out the colour of your... er ceremonial axe."

"Honestly?"

"Would I lie?"

—

Aziraphale's first impression of King Verence the Second of Lancre was that he had truly found a kindred spirit. His second impression was that the man was clearly on the path to becoming completely blotto.

"They want to use the library," said Agnes, her tone suggesting that she wanted to get away from these strange people as soon as possible.

"You're interested in books too?" said the King, his face lighting up, as he drowned a large glass of Chateaux de Quirm.

"I do possess a small collection," said Aziraphale, radiating false modesty.

Crowley snorted.

"Really what kind?"

Aziraphale began to talk happily, and at length, about his vast collection of misprinted Bibles and rare first editions, in great detail. King Verence, clearly delighted to have, at last, found somebody who shared his enthusiasm for the written word, was more than happy to stand and listen to the angel's book auction anecdotes. Neither of them really noticed the departure of the extremely bored demon that had been standing beside them.

—

Constable Visit, of the Ankh Morpork City Watch, was glowering at the assembled revellers. As a strict Omnian he was against such exhibitions of drunken debauchery - even though most of the guests were only mildly tipsy, and there really hadn't been much in the way of debauchery, unless you counted a few the jokes Corporal Nobbs had been telling earlier.

"Not much of a party is it?" said a voice.

He turned to see tall man, with good cheekbones, and odd glasses, standing next to him.

"A crass display of self-indulgence," said Constable Visit.

"Omnian are you?" said the man.

"I have some pamphlets somewhere," said Visit, never one to let a potential convert get away empty handed. Little did he know that his pamphlets had, with the blink of a well-covered serpentine eye, been drastically re-edited.

A woman bearing a tray of red wine walked past. The man with the strange glasses removed two glasses, and proffered one to Visit.

"Om forbids alcohol," said Visit, disapprovingly. "It dulls the mind and weakens spirit."

"Really? Have you ever tried it?"

"The Book of Ossory..."

"But you've never actually tried it yourself?"

"Never." Visit's expression verged on the smug.

"So you don't know what you're up against?"

"The Book of Ossory forbids us from polluting the body with such things."

"But if you don't understand the enemy, how can you expect to defeat it?"

Visit considered this for a moment. "What exactly are you saying?"

The man shrugged, and proceeded to drain both glasses. "Just making an observation. Now if you'll excuse me I've got to go and forcibly remove an angel from a book discussion."

"An angel?"

"Figure of speech."

As Crowley sauntered away, he noticed Visit tentatively approaching the woman bearing the drinks tray. He shook his head. The puritanically religious were always so easy to lead astray. All you needed to do was pique their curiosity, and human nature would take its inevitable course.

—

Nearly everyone who sampled them agreed that the cream filled pastries topped with the spiced chocolate sauce were unbelievably delicious. So much so, that most were accosting the serving staff, and demanding second helping. It was then that the problems started. Those who had partaken of these particular confectionary delights started to feel as though the ballroom had suddenly become ever so warm and stuffy. At first, those affected did no more than shift about uncomfortably in their evening wear. Soon however, they found themselves beset by the most unnatural of natural urges. The more self-controlled amongst them managed to make it out into the cold night air, where they began to loudly, and desperately, extol the virtues of late night jogging in sub-zero temperatures. The rest, much to the shock, and barely concealed voyeuristic glee, of the onlookers, merely gave in to their urges there and then.

Queen Magrat was horrified. She had been down on the idea of hosting any large scale pageants, balls, galas and feasts in the castle, ever since that incident with the vampires. But she had never, even in her most bizarre imaginings expected a spontaneous full-scale orgy to erupt in the ballroom. Granny really had known what she was talking about when she said that people from forn parts had some bloody weird customs. It was just a blessing that little Esme was in the games room, watching the children's puppet show with the Duchess of Ankh and her son.

She eventually found a tipsy, and rather confused, looking Verence standing next to two men. One of whom she recognised as the Duke of Ankh, the other she had not been introduced to, but he was definitely giving off some very strange vibes.

"...never seen anything like it," said the Duke of Ankh, shaking his head. "I don't suppose you want me to try and arrest them your majesty?"

"I don't think that would be very practical," said Verence, weakly. "Besides, most of them have diplomatic immunity... Ah Magrat, I...er thought you were watching the puppet show."

"I was on my way to the kitchens to find Granny. Verence, what on earth is going on?"

"I don't know. I was just having a conversation about book binding with Mr. Fell here, when they all just started.... well, you know."

"Verence, next year we're having a nice family Hogwatch."

"Yes dear."

—

Crowley didn't think he had ever seen anything quite so amusing since the fall of the Roman Empire. The sight of so many ill-suited people having promiscuous sex in public made his demonic heart glow with perverse delight. He couldn't wait to see their faces when the lust had faded, and they all finally realised what they'd done; in a ballroom, in front of an audience of over one hundred people. His mind was attempting to find a way in which he might claim some sort of official credit for the proceedings, when a hand connected sharply with his cheek.

"What did you do that for?" he said, glaring at Aziraphale.

The angel was clearly furious, even his ears had gone beetroot red with anger. "I have never been so embarrassed in my entire existence."

Crowley briefly considered mentioning the time that Aziraphale had accidentally submitted his annual thwarting report on the back of a pornographic piece of papyrus, but wisely decided against it. "Me, what have I done?"

"That." The angel gestured to two middle-aged members of the Genuan nobility, who were in a rather unorthodox position against the wall. "And don't even attempt to deny it."

"But I didn't..."

"I told you not to even attempt to deny it. And if you think that I'm going to speak to you again, at any time during the next three hundred years, then you'll find yourself sorely mistake."

"Fine," said Crowley, before storming off in the other direction. He did not particularly want to storm off, but it was either that or let the angel do the storming off. This, of course, left Crowley with a rather large problem. He had no idea how to get back home. The last time he had attempted to navigate multi-dimensional L-Space by himself had been an unmitigated disaster. He'd decided, after several glasses of Jack Daniels, that is would be a good idea to travel from the British Library to Aziraphale's shop using this method. He had arrive eventually; but only after accidentally stopping off at Ghormangast, Moria, Hogwarts, and, worst of all, the library at St. John's Comprehensive. Still, if the angel was going to be pissed off with him for a few months, he didn't really have much choice.


	3. Chapter 3

The wrath of Aziraphale was absolutely nothing compared to a few sharp words from Granny Weatherwax. Nanny however, was remaining steadfastly unrepentant.

"I don't see how it's my fault Esme," she said. "I wasn't the one who did it. Besides, everyone's always saying how these politicians and royals should make love not war; and it's not as if any kiddies saw it happening. You should know, you was sitting there telling off Mr. Punch."

"Gytha Ogg, you're going to get up this minute, and help me sort this mess out."

"Yes Esme." Nanny sighed; there was really no arguing with Granny when she said things in that tone of voice.

—

Aziraphale was doing his level best to make the people entwined in the ballroom, as guilty, repentant and un-entwined as possible. He wasn't having much success. The denizens of Discworld seemed to be rather resilient to angelic interference. It was really rather disheartening. In the end he decided to give up and have one of the delicious looking pastry things that had been carelessly abandoned on a side table. They tasted even better than they looked, though Aziraphale was quite unable to place all of the ingredients in the chocolate topping. It was not enough to have one, so he ate another, and another, and yet another. This display of unbridled gluttony was only interrupted when he was tapped on the back by a mildly concerned looking old woman.

He spluttered. "Mrs. Ogg, I was just er..."

"How many of those have you had?" she demanded.

"Just a few," he replied, guiltily. This was not technically a lie. Many or few is a completely relative concept.

"Oh bloody 'ell."

"What's wrong?"

"You might remember me mentioning my Special Secret Sauce earlier."

Aziraphale nodded politely. It wasn't the sort of thing one was able to easily forget.

"Well, that's what's on them that you've just eaten."

"What!"

"There was a mix up in the kitchens. Still, it probably doesn't do anything to angels like you." Nanny's voice implied hope rather than expectation.

The room began to seem increasingly hot and stuffy. Aziraphale's clothes suddenly felt very uncomfortable and restrictive. Taking them off began to seem like a very attractive option. Thoughts of clothing removal however, began to put him in mind of certain occasions in which apparel had been removed solely in order to let Crowley touch his bare skin. Such thoughts were not conducive to the maintenance of either dignity or equilibrium. There was only one thing for it. "Mrs. Ogg, I would be very grateful if you could point me in the direction of the nearest ice cold stream."

"About a mile and a half south of here," said Nanny, looking just a tad concerned.

"Thank you, very much obliged."

Aziraphale ran, or rather, lurched uncomfortably out of the ballroom, down the hallway, and out into the courtyard, where he shocked many of the post Special Sauce joggers by gracelessly unfurling his wings and taking to the air.

The river that Mrs. Ogg had directed him to was quite easy to spot from the air. It looked so very blissfully cool. There were even small chunks of ice floating on the surface. Five minutes after Aziraphale's landing however, and there were jets steam rising from the surface.

—

After one and a half hours of attempting to locate the castle library Crowley decided to take a break. The castle was even more bloody enormous on the inside that it looked from the air. He'd walked through a seemingly endless series abandoned armouries, hidden stairways, and forgotten wine cellars (from which he had been sure to liberate a few samples for further inspection), before admitting to himself that he was well and truly lost.

Currently he was standing in an enormous cobweb laden room with one tiny window, and being assailed by the feeling that somebody, or something, was standing right behind him. He swallowed nervously. "Wasn't expecting to see you here."

"I GET EVERYWHERE."

"Look, you're not come for me have you?"

"NO. THOUGH I DO WONDER WHAT YOU ARE DOING HERE."

Crowley turned around to look the anthropomorphic personification of Death in the skull. "I don't see what it had to do with... you're wearing a Hogfather hat."

"I'M GETTING INTO THE SPIRIT OF THINGS."

—

As the water of the previously icy river did its job Aziraphale managed to will most of the Special Secret Sauce out of his body. This was rather more difficult than he had anticipated owing to the fact that, in his eagerness to take a cold bath, he had forgotten to ask what the actual ingredients were. Still he was feeling much more like his usual self, if far wetter and colder. There was, of course, the problem that he'd just unfairly blamed the demon for something he hadn't actually done. Feelings of mild to moderate guilt began to set in, and he was suddenly confronted by the awful possibility that Crowley too had unknowingly partaken of the spiked pastries; and the demon was far less likely than Aziraphale to opt for the ice cold water solution. There was only one thing for it. He'd have to go back to the castle and apologise.

Much to his relief, Aziraphale eventually found Crowley alone, and stylishly reclining, on an ancient red and gold upholstered chaise lounge; in a cavernous, dusty room, filled with an array of ornate, yet utterly dilapidated, furniture.

"Crowley I... I'm... It was the dessert," he blurted out.

Crowley turned and regarded him with an almost dazed expression.

"I thought you'd incited that orgy in the ballroom, but it turns out that one of the kitchen maids accidentally put some of Mrs. Ogg's special sauce in the chocolate pudding. Crowley, I'm sorry, I really am."

There was no response from Crowley.

"Look, I know you're probably furious with me at the moment, but could you at least say something. Please?

Crowley cleared his throat, opened his mouth, as if to speak, and proceeded to say absolutely nothing. It was as if he were completely unable to put whatever it was he wanted to articulate into words.

"Crowley are you all right?" said Aziraphale, his tone shifting from apologetic to concerned. "You haven't been experimenting with those Octarine Darted Tree Frogs again have you?"

Crowley shook his head. "I've just seen Death; well, an aspect of him."

"That is perfectly normal, isn't it? He does work anywhere in which living things can conceivably die; and with all of these cobwebs around that chandelier it isn't particularly surprising that he'd make a personal appearance."

"Angel, in six thousand years of existence have you ever known Azrael to don a novelty party hat and attach a piece of silver tinsel to his scythe?"

"What, you mean he..." Aziraphale trailed off; there really wasn't a sensible response he could think of.

"Exactly. He's apparently also sub-contracted the death of rats out to a five inches tall skeletal rodent known as the 'Grim Squeaker'."

"Grim Squeaker? Crowley are you sure you haven't been experimenting with brightly coloured amphibians."

"No, Go... someone's honest truth. I was lounging around up here pondering the nature of existence when..."

"Sulking you mean?"

"I wasn't sulking I was... well maybe I was sulking, a bit, but it was all your fault. Oh, and don't think I've forgiven you for it yet."

"I said I was sorry Crowley, there really isn't a great deal else I can do."

"There is one thing you could do," said Crowley, suddenly wearing an expression that was not so much suggestive as downright lascivious.

Aziraphale sighed. "My dear, you really do seem to have developed a rather one-track mind of late. One rather wonders how you coped before we started...erm...."

"What, shagging?"

"Well, yes; if you really must insist on putting it so crudely."

"How would you rather I put it? Making tender love on the hearth rug? In case you haven't realised, we're not characters in a bloody seventies romance novel."

"You're being thoroughly infuriating," said Aziraphale, a note of irritation entering his voice. "Besides, you know full well that neither of us so much as owns a hearth rug."

Crowley opened his mouth, as if to make a pithy reply, and then closed it again; having seemingly decided that pithy replies wouldn't be particularly conducive to the attainment of his eventual, and really quite transparent, aims. Instead, he set his glass down on the floor, stood up, and slid an arm tightly around the angel's waist.  
Aziraphale scowled. "Crowley, I demand that you remove your hands from my person this instant."

The demon sighed in the most exaggerated manner possible, and released his grip.

"Thank you. As I was saying, you managed to go six thousand years without me pandering to your every carnal whim; I don't see why you can't go for one without..."

Crowley snorted. "You pandering to my every carnal whim? Excuse me, but whose idea was it to tie me to the bedposts in that country hotel? It sure as Glasgow wasn't mine. And let's not forget what you did with that carton of sticky toffee ice cream."

Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush at the memory. "At least that was a private room; as oppose to the largest furniture shop in the country."

"I don't recall you complaining at the time. In fact, if I remember rightly, it was you that kept me there for four hours the morning after."

"Well, I seem unable to recall you making any objection to being tied up. Unless of course there exists an obscure language wherein 'Oh yes angel, just like that' somehow translates as 'cease and desist immediately'."

The argument could have gone on for a very long time, had not a white haired young woman in a black dress, whose entire demeanour screamed schoolteacher, drifted through the wall without warning. Well, to tell the truth, she didn't so much drift through the wall as glide purposefully, and her demeanour was such that had it really screamed, it would have undoubtedly been docked one silver star, and banned from the toy corner for the rest of the day.

"EXCUSE ME... Damn it's happening again. I mean; excuse me, but you wouldn't happen to have seen a very tall thin gentleman come this way?"

"You mean tall, thin gentleman, as in, say, Death?" said Crowley, not quite sure whether to be stunned, or just irritated, by this new interloper.

"Yes, have you seen him?"

"Walked through here wearing a novelty party hat a minute or two ago."

"Oh poo... I mean, oh shit. He must be trying to get into the spirit of things again. Ever since that business with the Hogfather, he's been trying to...."

"Business with the Hogfather?" interrupted Aziraphale, looking alarmed.

"Long story. It's just that he appears to be neglecting his duties as Death."

"Neglecting his duties as Death, how is that possible?"

"BECAUSE I CAN BE ROPED IN TO HELP OUT WITH THE FAMILY BUSINESS."

"Family business?"

"I'm his granddaughter, Susan."

"Granddaughter? How on earth did he... I mean..."

"Long story. Now which direction did he go in?"

Crowley pointed hesitantly at the east wall. "I...erm... I think he was heading for Klatch."

"THANK YOU CRAWLY," said Susan, before promptly vanishing into thin air.

For several minutes there was silence as both angel and demon process to digest this new, and frankly rather disturbing, information about the most powerful of the apocalyptical horsepersons.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, eventually giving up on trying to somehow mesh the concepts of Death, grand-daughter, Susan, and Hogfather. "I think I need a drink."

The demon wordlessly picked up a half-empty bottle of Bear Huggers' Single Malt from the floor, and handed it to him.

"Thank you," said the angel, before downing the contents in one.

—  
Corporal Cheery Littlebottom was hopelessly lost. She had been trying to find the kitchens in order to fetch Lady Sybil some warm milk for young Sam, but had somehow ended up in what looked to be a very large corridor, lined with dust covered paintings, and filled with lots of well dressed, yet rather dishevelled, people; who appeared to be trying to make sense of recent - and never to be referred to again - events in the ballroom.

"Erm... excuse me," she said, to a tired looking, dark haired young woman, who was holding what looked and smelled like an extra-large, extra-strong, cup of Klatchian Red. "But you couldn't tell me where the kitchens are from here could you?"

"Back out of the gallery, fourth door on the right," the woman replied, taking a sip.

"Thank you." She paused for a moment and looked at the enormous cup she was carrying with concern. "Look I know this probably none of my business, but haven't you seen the public awareness campaign?"

"Which one?"

"You know: 'If you do caffeinated, don't do knurd'."

"Heh, it'll take more than this to get me knurd."

"But in Ankh Morpork they only sell it in tiny glasses."

"Look, have you ever had a mad stalker threaten to steal all your coffee and replace it with the D-word?"

"Well... no," said Cheery, not quite sure what the D-word was.

"Then you can't possibly understand why I need to do this." With that she took a defiant gulp from the gigantic mug.

Cheery smiled politely, and backed away slowly. The woman was clearly completely mental. As she was about to turn back toward the way she came however, somebody caught her eye. It was a short, auburn haired man, who had a large heart-shaped birthmark on the back of his neck. She was sure she'd seen him somewhere before, but couldn't quite put her finger on where. In The Times maybe, or perhaps in Completely Women. It was then that it hit her; he was person number six on the Ankh Morpork Most Wanted list. As the man disappeared up the staircase at the other end of the gallery, she knew she had to find the other members of the watch; and fast. The problem was that running in a cerise ball gown, whilst holding a large axe, and wearing iron-reinforced kitten heals, was nigh on impossible. In the end, the best she could manage was a fast hobble.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley and Aziraphale sat on the floor, in front of them was an ever-growing pile of empty bottles.

"So... so... what was it I was saying again?" said a very drunk Crowley, as he, rather ineffectually, tried to paw at the angel sitting beside him.

"Something about alternate universes, I think," said Aziraphale, slapping the demon's hand away.

"Oh yeah. We're not in our own universe, right?"

"Well no, that is rather obvious."

"So anything we do here doesn't have any effect back home."

"Of course not. Crowley, is this about sex again?"

"Yes."

"Ah, I thought so. Look, have you ever considered taking up a hobby, needlework perhaps, or maybe skiing."

"Nothing we in this universe effects our own," said Crowley, not about to be distracted from his main point. "Ergo, if there were going to be, say, a sudden release of demonic or divine energy, nobody back home would notice."

"We'd still be affecting this world."

"Yeah, but only once. And you said that once a year was..."

"Crowley, you're quite impossible."

"Is that a yes then?"

The angel sighed. Despite removing almost every last molecule of Nanny Ogg's Special Secret Sauce from his body, thoughts of doing delightfully obscene things to the demon were still very much present in his mind. Unfortunately, giving in now would feel too much like letting him triumph; and Crowley could be insufferably smug when he thought he'd won.

"Well is it?"

"I suppose it is my sworn duty to prevent you from taking advantage of those poor inebriated humans downstairs by any means necessary."

"Of course it is," said Crowley, grinning wickedly, and snaking an arm around Aziraphale's waist. "Think of how many diabolic wiles you could thwart just by keeping me occupied."

"There is one thing though," said Aziraphale, as the demon started to enthusiastically kiss the side of his neck.

"Mmm?"

"I want Glastonbury back."

Crowley suddenly stopped what he was doing. "What?"

"You heard. I want Glastonbury back."

"But I won that bet."

"As I remember, you got me very drunk, introduced me to LSD, and then somehow persuaded me to wager my signed first-edition of Dorian Gray, against you managing to corrupt more than fifty politicians in one week."

"It's not as if I made you do any of those things," said Crowley, who had abandoned his neck kissing endeavour, and was now embarking on a fumbled attempt to unbutton Aziraphale's shirt.

"You tricked me into thinking it was going to fifty politicians the next week, not fifty politicians in any week, including the heyday of the Roman Empire."

"Not my fault you made that particular assumption. And I let you give me one stupid little town instead of your precious book didn't I.... You know, this would be a blessed sight easier if you'd just let me wish your clothes off."

"I think it would possibly help if you weren't seeing double. Anyway, if it is, as you say, 'one stupid little town', then I fail to see why you wouldn't be prepared to give it up in the spirit of friendship. Of course if you don't consider us to be friends..." The sentence was left hanging, as Aziraphale began to extract himself from Crowley's grasp.

A look of panic crossed the demons face, as the realisation that his chances of getting the angel into any sort of compromising position that night were fading rather fast, began to hit him. "Fine... fine you can have bloody Glastonbury."

Aziraphale smiled, and gently kissed the side of Crowley's mouth. "I knew you'd be reasonable."

"There's a word for people who do that, you know."

"Do what?"

"Offer sex in exchange for small towns in rural England."

"I believe," Aziraphale murmured into Crowley's ear, "that the word is enterprising."

Crowley made a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a hiss, and then, quite literally, pounced on the angel; something which, given the fact that said angel was sitting directly beside him, was quite a feat of agility indeed. 

Aziraphale, suddenly aware that he was on his back and underneath Crowley, tried to speak, only to find his lips pressed against the demon's; and a forked tongue eagerly exploring his mouth. For some reason, this caused certain facets of his anatomy, which usually required a concerted effort to bring into existence, to materialise of their own accord, and being making rather pressing demands for his attention. As Crowley deepened the kiss Aziraphale found himself, almost involuntarily, pressing one hand against the back of the demon's head, and letting the other squeeze his left buttock. It was, he had to admit, extremely pleasant. There was just one tiny, yet incredibly irritating, difficulty...

"What is it?" demanded Crowley, when the angel pushed his head away.

"Just one problem," said Aziraphale, shifting uncomfortably.

A look of what could only be described as shear desperation crossed the demon's face. "Look if this is about that Monet I accidentally put that coffee cup on I'll find a way to make it up to you. Or, if you're still pissed off about that thing I got those elves in Lothlorien to do, I'll send a handwritten apology to the Valar."

"It's nothing to do with any of that; although I must admit, I am still furious about the Monet. It's these floorboards."

"What about them?"

"Crowley, I'm getting splinters in my arse."

Crowley suddenly looked as though he was trying to decide whether to laugh, or cry with frustration.

"Dear boy, amusing as this may be to you, we really have to find somewhere else."

With a great show of reluctance, Crowley slid off Aziraphale, and unsteadily stood up. He then proceeded to make a series of complicated hand gesture, which had, during the eighties, inadvertently formed the basis of several third rate, bubblegum pop, dance routines. The contents of the room were at once replaced with an array of animal print rugs, pseudo-Moroccan carpentry, and a profusion of satin throws. An overpowering smell of burning incense was beginning to choke the air.

Aziraphale sat up, and regarded the changes with something bordering on total horror. "You can't just go around transmuting other people's possessions into obscenely tasteless soft furnishings without their permission."

"Just trying to create a little ambiance angel."

"Ambiance, you call this ambiance? It looks like the inside of a tart's boudoir. No, even worse, it looks like something that dreadful Llewellyn Bowen chap would create."

"Aziraphale I'm not prepared to have sex with anyone in a room decorated with Laura bloody Ashley florals." This statement was completely untrue. The demons frustration at this point was so great that he would have quite happily taken the angel over one of the doily laden tables in Madam Puddifoot's Tearoom, at peak time, in front of the Hogsmeade branch of The Women's Institute.

"Crowley, I'll have you know that I've never once set foot in Laura Ashley." This was technically true, the angel had, after all, ordered the rose print bedspread and appliqué cushions from the shop's autumn catalogue.

"Fine... fine, I'll sort it out." The demon snapped his fingers, and the room transformed again; this time into a facsimile of Crowley's Mayfair flat.

"I hardly think that the white leather and chrome is in keeping with the original character of the building."

Crowley looked as though he were about to scream. Feeling ever so slightly guilty, Aziraphale got to his feet, and snapped his fingers. The room now resembled Aziraphale's shop; or at least it would have resembled Aziraphale's shop, had the shop been ten times larger, twenty times less dusty, and a bedroom rather than an antique book repository.

The demon made a face. "It's all so... tartan."

"Tartan's stylish," said Aziraphale, before snapping his fingers for a second time.

Crowley would probably have attempted to dispute this fact, had he not suddenly found himself stark naked, and being pushed towards the bed by a grinning angel.

—

Vimes was sitting in the castle's smoking room, listening to the King of Lancre's drunken ramblings about his Kingdoms need for a formalised health care system, when Angua burst through the door.

"What's happened?" he demanded, mentally thanking providence for the interruption. Drunken ramblings were only ever interesting they didn't contain words such as 'infrastructure' and 'sustainable development'.

"Corporal Littlebottom thinks she's just spotted Shady McShifty, Sir."

"What, here?"

"Going up the stairs at the end of the long gallery."

"Who's Shady McShifty?" asked King Verence, furrowing his brow, and swaying ever so slightly.

"You hear about the theft of the Mona Ogg a few months ago?"

"I read about it in The Times."

"That was him. The light fingered little bugger's also done over the Opera House, Quirm Manor, and Ankh Morpork Folk Song and Dance Society tea kitty."

"And he's here?" said King Verence, suddenly anxious.

"Sound like it. Where does that staircase go?"

"The South-East Wing."

"Are there any other exits. Apart from the windows, that is."

King Verence shook his head. "None that I know of... Commander Vimes I'm sure you only had one nose five minutes ago?"

Vimes tried to think of a polite way to tell the King of Lancre that what he was experiencing was the phenomenon known as 'being completely plastered... "I... arm... I think you might have had a bit too much too much of the Chateaux de Quirm your majesty."

Drunk though he was, the anxiety on the King's face doubled. "Oh... oh dear Magrat's going to be a bit upset."

"Right, how many men do you have?"

"Men?"

"You know, Guardsmen."

"We've got Shawn Ogg."

"No one else?"

"Well he could probably get his brothers and a few of their friends together. Of course if we told him, he tell his mother; who'd probably tell Magrat; who's already a bit annoyed about that whole scene in the ballroom, and is possibly going to be even more annoyed when she sees me like this... Oh no what am I going to do?"

"Angua you're familiar with McShifty's scent, right?"

"I think so. He used aniseed bombs at his last three break-ins though."

"Bastard. How many watchmen do we have still sober?"

Angua sighed. "Me, Detritus and Corporal Littlebottom. Nobby and Fred Colon are completely out of it."

"What about Constable Visit?"

"Last seen collapsed in a corner of the kitchens, singing The Hedgehog song; badly."

Vimes shook his head; it was all the same with these puritanical religious types, one tiny sip of the scumble and they'd dive head first into the barrel.

"Right, get Detritus to block that staircase, and then go and change. We're going to get that slippery little bastard, this time."  
"What about Corporal Littlebottom?"

"Tell her to bring his majesty the strongest coffee she can find." He glanced at the extremely drunk King Verence with the brotherly sympathy of one who has 'been there and most certainly done that'.

—

Unlike Vimes, Crowley was anticipating a very pleasurable night. After having his clothing wished off and being pushed onto a tartan-quilted four-poster bed by Aziraphale, he had soon found himself being kissed, stroked, pinched, licked and caressed in the most thoroughly distracting of manners. Had his head not been swimming with a potent combination of alcohol and lust he might have questioned whether he had actually been the one doing the seducing in this particular instance. As things were however, his primary concern was that most of the aforementioned kissing, stroking, pinching, licking and caressing seemed to be mainly being directed at the upper portion of his body; as oppose to the parts of him that were really crying out for attention. In an attempt to remedy this clearly intolerable situation, he took hold of the hand the angel was resting on his shoulder and began to guide it downwards.

"Impatient, aren't we," murmured Aziraphale, who, until a second ago, had been intently covering the demons neck and chest with little lovebites.

"Impatient? I've been waiting for three bloody weeks." Crowley's expression became almost pained as the angel's fingers brushed gently against the inside of his thigh.

"As I recall it wasn't so much waiting as complaining."

"Ssstop teasssing Aziraphale, pleassse" hissed Crowley, suddenly very much aware that he was lying naked and fully aroused, on the least stylish bed in existence, whilst being casually fondled by a fully clothed angel, and practically pleading for release. It was, he thought, a bloody good job that none of his colleagues from the pit could see him right now.

Aziraphale regarded him with an expression, which appeared to be a cross between tenderness and mild amusement, before once again kissing the side of Crowley's mouth. Aziraphale did not stop there however, and quickly moved on to the demons neck, followed by his chest, and then his stomach.

When the angel finally took him in the mouth, Crowley was instantly rendered almost insensible. After a few wonderful moments, in which he was completely lost in the utterly exquisite sensations going on between his legs, it became blindingly clear to the demon that he wasn't the only supernatural being on the planet who could do really weird things with his tongue. Not that he was complaining, of course. With one hand pressing against the angel's head, and the other clutching at the terminally unfashionable bedclothes, the demon started to moan. Well, moaning was one way of putting it; another would be gasping profanities as loud as possible.

Whilst ninety-eight percent of Crowley's mind remained solely concerned with nothing but the aforementioned utterly exquisite sensations, the other two percent was left in charge of monitoring everything else. Unfortunately for Crowley, this two percent insisted on occupying itself by pondering such questions as: 'is it really such a good idea to be shouting expletives quite this loud?', 'is it just me or do these facial expressions that I seem to be involuntarily making actually look really stupid?' and last, though certainly not least, 'who the fuck taught the angel to do that, because it sure as hel... Manchester wasn't me?'. Still, he was enjoying the experience far too much to let such piffling little worries bother him to any great extent. The only really important thing right now was that Aziraphale didn't stop. Unfortunately for Crowley, this was exactly what Aziraphale was about to do.

"Did you just hear that?" said the angel, after pulling away sharply.

The demon veritably howled. It just wasn't fair. "Look, what do you want?" he shouted, aware that he probably sounded as though he were on the verge of insanity, and not caring one bit. "Manchester? You can have it. Glasgow? Take that too..."

"Crowley I don't want Manchester or Glasgow - well, unless you're making a serious offer, of course. I just thought I heard a noise."

"Angel, please." He must have sounded desperate enough for Aziraphale to take pity on him, because the angel promptly resumed where he had left off; and oh... somebody did it feel good. It felt so amazingly, incredibly good, in fact, that he soon found his back arching, and his whole body tensing, as the pleasure reach almost unbearable levels. A few seconds later, the Ankh Morpork headquarters of the Alchemists' Guild spontaneously blew up. Nobody in the city so much as batted an eyelid.

—

The search for man who stole the Mona Ogg was not going well. Nobby, Visit, and Fred Colon had, as Angua had attested, been completely plastered; and neither Detritus nor Cheery Littlebottom were particularly suited to stealthily hunting sneaky art thieves.

After changing into wolf form in a broom cupboard, Angua had managed to pick up McShifty's scent on the second floor. Unfortunately she seemed to be growing increasingly agitated as the search progressed. Vimes suspected that the thief must be doing something to interfere with the sergeant's sense of smell.

"Anything?" he whispered, as Angua sniffed her way along yet another never-ending corridor.

The wolf turned her head, looked him in the eye, and proceeded at great speed towards the patchily carpeted staircase, which lead to the third floor. Vimes followed as quickly, and as quietly, as he was able, which, due to the irritatingly new, and ludicrously ornate, boots Sybil had insisted he wear for the occasion, was neither very quick, nor particularly quiet.

—

"You," said a sated, and really rather smug looking, Crowley, "are a complete bastard. What did you think you were doing, stopping like that?"

"I heard something move outside," said Aziraphale, drawing closer to the demon. "Though with all of that noise you were making, I have no idea how. In fact, I'm surprised that nobody came rushing up here to see what all the commotion was about."

"Big castle, lots of rooms," said Crowley, yawning.

"Crowley, you're not planning to go to sleep now, are you?"

The demon smirked. "Why, have you got any better ideas?"

"Dear boy, I really don't think I can allow an untold amount of demonic influence to be unleashed on this world without taking steps to counteract it with a divine equivalent. It just wouldn't be morally justifiable."

"So what you're essentially saying," said Crowley, as he found himself being rolled onto his stomach, by a suddenly naked angel, "is that you're going to shag me senseless, but for completely altruistic reasons."

"Crowley."

"Hmm."

"Be a good chap, and shut up."

—

After a cursory glance around the kitchens Corporal Littlebottom had found no sign of anything remotely caffeinated. There was really only one option, and it wasn't a pleasant one. Removing half a cup of Klatchian Red from anybody even approaching Knurd was always a dangerous game. It was for this reason that she had been forced to enlist the help of Shawn Ogg.

"She doesn't look very dangerous," he said, doubtfully, as Cheery pointed out the gangly, dark haired woman, currently bearing the quickest way through sobriety and out the other side.

"Have you ever attended a coffee shop brawl?" said Cheery.

"Well, no, but I did once tell Bestiality Carter to..."

"They all look like unassuming, respectable citizens, until someone accidentally spills their double chocolate Morporkaccino."

"So we go up to her and say: 'excuse me Miss but you've got to hand over that big cup of extra strong Klatchian Red, by order of King Verence the second. It's the law'. But what if she doesn't want to? Mum'd go mad if she heard I was beating up girls."

Cheery thought about this for a moment. From what she had heard Nanny Ogg wasn't somebody you wanted to get one the wrong side of. "If she resists then I'll grab the legs, and you grab the coffee."

"Right."

—

Vimes was having great difficulty keeping up with Angua. The sergeant had picked up the scent, and was now racing up steep flights of stairs and down a never-ending series of corridors, in hot pursuit of Morpork's Most Wanted. Eventually she came to a standstill in the middle of particularly gloomy, and cobweb encrusted, corridor, and began to sniff at each of the decrepit oak doors in turn.

It was then that Vimes started to hear the noises.

—

"Excuse me Miss, but you've got to hand over that big cup of extra strong Klatchian Red, by order of King Verence the second."

The woman twitched. "What?"

"It's the law."

She laughed in what could only be described as a manic fashion. "No... no, this is mine. My own. My love. My precious coffee."

Shawn looked at Cheery. "Is this when we, you know?"

"Yes."

Cheery grabbed the legs. Shawn grabbed the cup. The woman shouted something about it all being 'a big fucking conspiracy'.

—

Had Aziraphale not been in such a state of veritable near-ecstasy, he might have noticed the pounding footsteps that were drawing ominously closer. As it was however, he was having such a thoroughly enjoyable time grinding into the beautifully flushed demon, that coherent thought just wasn't a mental process he was currently utilising.

—

Vimes was behind the door, ready to arrest the most notorious art thief of the decade. There seemed to be a lot of thudding and creaking going on inside. Clearly McShifty had uncovered some priceless heirloom or other, which he was planning to liberate from Lancre Castle.

This is the end of the line sunshine, he thought, as he placed his hand on the door knob.

Angua frantically tried to inform Vimes that he had the wrong room, and the one he wanted was across the hallway. Unfortunately, he did not understand basic wolf, and Angua's four legged charade skills weren't really up to scratch.

He turned the handle. It was locked. "Well, if that's the way you want to play it," he muttered under his breath.

A foot was raised.

The door was kicked open.

Vimes's jaw dropped. "What the bloody hell is going on here?"

Aziraphale looked up in surprised. Sudden shock can have a great many effects on an unsuspecting angel. When the angel in question happens to be unclothed and on top of a supposed deadly opponent, in the most compromising of positions, then it is only natural that certain sub-conscious automated defence mechanisms will kick in. It was for this reason that Aziraphale's wings instantly unfurled of their own accord.

Vimes looked on, completely speechless.

Aziraphale looked back, completely mortified.

Crowley looked up, feeling vaguely excited by the whole situation.

In the hallway Angua snarled as she cornered a terrified Shady McShifty.

Vimes cleared his throat. "Er... sorry for the intrusion sirs... case of mistaken...er... room." He had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to forget this particular incident for a very long time. Returning back to the relative sanity of the hallway, Vimes made the hastiest arrest of his career.

Once the startled Watch Commander had removed himself, his prisoner and the unsolicited mental images he had just acquired, from the scene, Aziraphale, rather shamelessly, went back to what he was doing before the interruption. Doing it with one's wings out, he thought, was actually quite pleasant. He really would have to try it again some time.

Two minutes later there was a spontaneous rain of sushi in a drought stricken patch of the Klatchian Desert. The people who dwelt in the area looked on in sheer amazement. It was, after all, the first time that the Almanac had, in its four hundred year existence, ever made a correct prediction.

—

By the time that Sam Vimes had deposited a blubbering McShifty in the dungeons, listened to the crooks tearful tirade about rabid animals, and returned to the Smoking Room, he still, quite understandably, hadn't fully recovered.

"Are you okay Sir?" asked Cheery Littlebottom, as she carefully poured another 4 cc's of Klatchian Red into King Verence's cup.

"Hmm... Oh fine, fine. Why, what's wrong?"  
"I hope you don't mind me saying so Sir, but you're looking very pale."

"I think I must have a cold coming on," said Vimes, lying. He really wasn't prepared to talk about the fact that he had just seen two men going at it with all of those feathers.

"I think the entertainment's starting in a minute," said Shawn Ogg, who didn't seem to be quite sure what his current function actually was. "My brother Jason and his mates are all going to be performing something that isn't the Lancre Stick and Bucket Dance."

"Oh dear," said King Verence, who, whilst almost sober, was looking even paler than Vimes. "Is it that time already? Look, I don't suppose that you could all possibly not mention any of ..." he gestured ineffectually towards the empty wine bottles on the table and Klatchian coffee. "...any of this to Magrat, could you?"

"I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we'll never speak of it again," said Shawn Ogg. "Well, unless she asks us. Or if my mum or Mistress Weatherwax does."

King Verence smiled weakly. It was the only kind of promise one could realistically expect to extract when witches were potentially concerned.

—

Crowley was not snuggling up to Aziraphale, under the horrible tartan covers. He could, he decided, perhaps be said to be languidly draping himself over the angel, or drawing close for body heat. But he was most emphatically, definitely, absolutely, not snuggling up to him. And he really couldn't be blamed for the fact that the angel seemed to be snuggling back.

"My dear, I really do believe that I'm actually quite fond of you," said Aziraphale, as he stroked the back of the demon's neck.

"Soppy bastard," said Crowley, who was nonetheless grinning from ear to ear and moving even closer.

"I don't think that I will ever be able to look that man in the eye again though. What must he think of us?"

"Well, I would have thought that was obvious," said Crowley, grin now supplanted by smirk. "His expression was just priceless."

"I can't help wondering if removing the memory would have been the morally correct thing to do."

"Remember what happened last time you tried that on Discworld. Besides, he had a werewolf with him."

"Ah, point taken." Aziraphale sighed. "That poor man by The Ankh, I only wish I could have done something to rectify the problem. No idea why he kept talking about millenniums, hands and shrimps afterwards though."

"Probably ineffable or something," said Crowley.

"Oh, do you think? I really do hope so."

"Aziraphale."

"Hmm."

"L-Space leads to lots of different universes, not just earth and Discworld, right?"

"Oh yes, anywhere with a sufficiently developed book collection. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious." The smirk grew bigger,

The angel looked at him, an expression of mock exasperation on his face. "Crowley, do you think of nothing else."

The demon considered this for a moment. "Occasionally," he said, eventually.

"Well, I have heard of a place called Sunnydale. Alternate version of earth, wonderful book collections."

"Sounds great," said Crowley, before drowsily kissing the angel goodnight.

—

Downstairs, almost everybody agreed that the play put on by the Lancre Morris Men had been a great success. Granny Weatherwax, of course, disapproved on principle. But, on the plus side, she hadn't disapproved quite as much as usual. The ghost of Hogswatch Yet To Come had, in the opinion of the assembled crowd, been excellently played by the tall gentleman with tinsel adorned Scythe. The only real problem in the eyes of the audience was the rustling noise made by Nanny Ogg, as she unselfconsciously gift-wrapped Hogswatch presents on the front row.

"Very well done those men," said Lady Sybil, clapping enthusiastically. On her knee sat a sleeping Sam Vimes Junior.

"What did you just say dear," said Sam Vimes senior, who was still looking a little dazed.

"I was just saying, well done those men."

"Oh...er right."

"Sam."

"Yes dear."

"Are you feeling quite all right?"

"I think I might be coming down with a cold. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you've been sitting there looking terribly pale for the last few hours. And you keep mumbling something about 'wings'. I just wondered if anything was wrong."

"Everything's fine," said Vimes, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice.

Agnes Nitt, who was seated in the front row next to Nanny Ogg, had been listening to this exchange between the Duke and Dutchess of Ankh. She did feel horribly guilty about eavesdropping. But Nanny had always said it was perfectly acceptable for witches to do things like that. And then, of course, there was Perdita, who seemed to be rather excited by the Duke's mutterings about wings. I knew they must do it with them out, she said smugly, within the confines of Agnes's head. Agnes just blushed at the thought.

"Shameful, that's what I call it," said Granny Weatherwax, from two seats away.

"Hey, our Jason worked hard on that play," said Nanny Ogg, with fierce maternal pride.

"I wasn't talking about the play Gytha. Though I see no reason why Himself had any business being in it. I was talking about the..." she looked distastefully at the ceiling. "... goings on."

"Oh that. I thought it was sweet really, after their little falling out earlier," said Nanny, who was industriously sticking down the corners of a oblong shaped parcel.

"And whose fault was that Gytha Ogg? You were the one that wrote that book."

"Well, I didn't know little Gertie Spindle would get hold of it. Besides it wasn't half funny seeing all of those toffs squirm like that."

Granny sniffed disapprovingly. "You're shameless Gytha Ogg."

—

When Aziraphale and Crowley woke the next morning, both were rather surprised to find an autographed copy of The Joy of Snacks amongst the presents the Hogfather had left by the fireplace - which hadn't actually been there the night before. Crowley, for his part, was rather surprised to find any presents at all.

"Why would the Hogfather bother to come here?" said the demon, who, for obvious reasons, got a bit uncomfortable when informed that old men with big white beards were watching him whilst he was asleep.

Aziraphale flushed as he carefully removed the silver wrapping from a signed first edition of Achmed-I-Just-Get-These-Headaches's Book of Humourous Cat Stories. "I er... sent him a list."

Crowley started to snigger. Aziraphale knew that he was never going to live this one down.


End file.
